Brutal Obsession (16)

“What the fuck?”

“Someone broke in and destroyed everything. On Monday.” I don’t tell her that they wrote whore across my wall, and that all my memories are gone. I mean, they still live in my head. But beyond that…

“MONDAY?” she shrieks. She smacks my arm. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Because…” I don’t know. I haven’t cried this whole time. Not when I found it, not when I started to tear down the pictures. Or when I discovered my journal missing. I told myself that tears were useless and action could fix this. Make it better.

But now, with Willow witnessing the aftermath, the backs of my eyes burn. And they fill with tears. I blink rapidly, trying to keep the liquid from spilling out. But my shoulders hunch, and my chest gets tight, and the floodgates open.

I break down in the middle of the room, slowly sinking to my knees. I let it go, and the shuddering mess of emotions comes pouring out.

Willow sits beside me, her arm coming down around my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault,” I respond. My voice is hoarse. I wish it was for a good reason, but I’m just exhausted.

“You can sleep in my room until we get you a new bed. Like a sleepover.”

I choke on my laugh and wipe under my nose. “Thanks. Just like old times.”

She nods emphatically. “Right? It’ll be great. Or we’ll get sick of each other in the middle of the night and one of us will move to the couch.”

“That only happened once.” I rub at my eyes and clear my throat. “Mexican food just does something to me.”

She snorts. “Trust me, I remember.”

Then she rises and holds out her hands. “Come on, you deserve a drink after dealing with this shit.”

I let her help me up. “I’m going to need to get new clothes, too.”

“Those fuckers,” she breathes. “What didn’t they touch?”

“The rest of the apartment.” I can’t even feel particularly bad about that—I’m glad they only targeted me. For whatever I did. I think, on some level, I might deserve it.

“Did you take photos?”

I nod and pull them up. She takes my phone and swipes through, her face getting more and more pinched as she goes. I wanted evidence, but now all I want is to forget it happened.

Fat chance of that.

“Definitely time for a drink,” she mutters. “Not that I’m a proponent of drowning our problems in alcohol. But the game is tomorrow, so it should be relatively tame.”

I nod along.

And then we get to Haven, and we both swear.

Five-dollar Margarita night.

“Well, at least we like margaritas,” I say.

She laughs. “Yep. Jess is on her way, too.”

We find two stools at the bar, and the bartender arrives shortly after. He’s a senior at CPU, but he doesn’t comment on the video. He just gives us a broad smile and takes our orders without comment.

Willow glances around. There’s a lot of underclassmen here today, which normally isn’t a problem. I don’t mind them here, being loud and distracting. It helps. I focus on the television hanging on the wall over the glass shelves of liquor bottles instead.

“Did you talk to your mom about him?” Willow asks.

I shake my head. “Haven’t heard from her since she dropped me off last week.”

She grunts. Willow knows my mother’s antics. Knows what to expect from her and what she’s become.

And what she’s become is a flake.

It’s okay, though. Once my dreams went down the toilet, I understood that her dreams went along with them. She spent a lot of time carting me to dance classes, recitals, buying pointe shoes and tutus and the outfits I had to have as a kid and teenager.

She wanted to see me succeed, too.

“My parents and sister are coming up next week,” Willow says. “I guess my sister wants to apply here and follow in my footsteps.”

I raise my eyebrow. Willow’s sister, Indie, is a wilder version of my best friend. At sixteen, she already has a reputation of dating too much, of sneaking out, drinking when her parents aren’t home. She smokes weed, too. Something Willow and I tried exactly once before my mother forcibly smacked some sense into me.

I still can’t smell it without my ass cheeks hurting.

“I think they want me to take her around to my classes and shit.”

I grin. “Good luck.”

Indie and Willow are almost too similar. Headstrong, chaotic. They argue and fight, and that’s their love language.

I don’t get it. I’m an only child from a single mother. It was just the two of us when I was growing up. We lived in an old Victorian house in a sprawling neighborhood. One of the last that didn’t actually have congested traffic or a commute.

We went to the best school in the county. We got a solid education. But besides Willow, I didn’t walk away with more friends.

Which is fine. It just means we’re close. I spent weekends at her house when my mom needed a break from me. Her parents fed me dinner, helped with my homework on occasion—her mom is a mathematician, and her dad is an engineer. They’re like-minded and whip-smart.

Willow gets that from them. It’s why she’s majoring in computer science. She’s going to take the tech world by storm when she graduates.